Answered Prayers
by karebear
Summary: "I just want what normal people have." If you try, denial can be powerful enough to hold a family together long after it should have fallen apart. DAWC challenge response.
1. Prologue: Empty

Title: Answered Prayers  
><span>Author:<span> karebear  
><span>Rating:<span> T  
><span>Characters:<span> Isolde, Connor, some Eamon, Jowan later on  
><span>Standard Disclaimer (Dragon Age):<span> I don't own these characters or the world they inhabit. Bioware built the sandbox. I just play in it.  
><span>Summary:<span> "I just want what normal people have." If you try, denial can be powerful enough to hold a family together long after it should have fallen apart. Isolde, Jowan, and Connor try. DAWC challenge response.  
><span>Notes:<span> An answer to a challenge posted in the DAWC forums by gutterxromance, who wanted: a fic depicting Isolde's mental state/thought process/reactions to Connor's magic, how she managed to keep it from Eamon and how she struggled with her beliefs and her love for Connor before finally hiring Jowan to teach him in secret.

* * *

><p>"What do you want?"<p>

"A child. More than anything. It's all I've _ever_ wanted."

"Shhh. Sleep, Lady. Have no fear. You will have what you desire."

Isolde blinks her eyes open to find the bed empty.

Eamon had loved her in the night, gently and carefully. It cannot be said that he is one of those men who simply does a _duty_, doing what is necessary to produce an heir and taking no pleasure in it. He makes her feel like something more than a failure, he tells her as he holds her that it doesn't _matter_ whether or not their coupling results in a baby.

But no matter how early she wakes, he is always gone already, burying himself in his work. He rarely meets her eyes, these days, and when he crawls into bed at night and she whispers her promise that she'll give him a son, they both knew, more with each month that passes marked by only blood and broken promises, that the words are meaningless, and hopeless.

She cries bitter tears at her inability to give him this one thing, and then she drags herself out of bed and washes her face carefully and dresses as though these gowns might truly be enough to shield her from the judgmental stares and rumors.

She retreats to the chapel, or, on days when she feels energetic enough to make the walk, to the Chantry in the village, where holy women watch her with sympathetic eyes, but she _knows_ they cluck and roll their eyes after she leaves.

She spends half her day begging the Maker for deliverance, an answer to her prayers. But it is the voices in the night that give her the only fragile remaining wisps of hope to cling to. She puts her faith in the whispers of her dreams, far more than the crushing echoes of silence that are the only reply she ever receives in the emptiness of holy places.


	2. Mine

Title: Answered Prayers  
><span>Author:<span> karebear  
><span>Rating:<span> T  
><span>Characters:<span> Isolde, Connor, Jowan later on  
><span>Standard Disclaimer (Dragon Age):<span> I don't own these characters or the world they inhabit. Bioware built the sandbox. I just play in it.  
><span>Summary:<span> "I just want what normal people have." If you try, denial can be powerful enough to hold a family together long after it should have fallen apart. Isolde, Jowan, and Connor try. DAWC challenge response.  
><span>Chapter Notes<span>: Is it possible to be sympathetic to someone and think they're a bitch at the same time? Because that's basically the vibe I'm getting with Isolde this chapter.

* * *

><p>"Come to me, sweet thing. Why are you crying?"<p>

"Had a bad dream," her precious boy mumbles, fitting himself into her arms. He is six years old now, but in the night, he seems far younger and more fragile than the serious, determined child he becomes in the daylight. As the moonlight streams through the large windows, Connor wraps his sticky arms around her neck. He smells sweet, like grass and milk and herb-scented soap. His warmth, his solid weight, so _real_ against her body, fills her with new wonder even after all these years.

It is not the first time he's crawled into her bed after waking in the night, flailing and shrieking, shivering with fear for far too long even as she holds him.

It seems he has _always_ been troubled by nightmares, since he was a squalling infant, and she watched with growing trepidation and exhaustion as month after month passed by. She queried her serving women again and again, knowing nothing about motherhood, and they all told her that babes as old as hers ought to sleep through the night.

Eamon grew frustrated by the boy's presence, always loud and demanding.

She gave in to his insistence that she put their son in his own rooms, a long hall away from theirs, so that the child could learn to comfort himself and would no longer keep them awake.

He refused to allow her to go to him when Connor screamed and cried and kicked in his cradle. Even the servants agreed that it was the best way for the babe to learn.

She relented at first, but as days and then weeks went by and a night never passed without her hearing his desperate thrashing and wailing, she stopped listening to her husband's demands. She made her way to Connor's cradle and picked him up, held him in her arms for long hours until he fell quiet, sucking contentedly at her breast.

Even after he was weaned, Connor still found his way to her in the night, no longer desiring her milk but only her warmth, her soothing words, her _presence_.

Soon enough Eamon found his own place to sleep, away from both of them.

She thought giving him what he wanted would make things better, but Connor is only a child, far too small to close the gap that years of mistrust and desperation have created between them.

From the moment the babe was born, she'd seen in Eamon's eyes that the child would not be the miracle she'd dreamed of. Connor would not be a living cure for her crumbling marriage. Instead, he would only be _her son_. And from that moment, she'd known that this was all she'd ever asked for, and she resolved that it would be enough.

Part of her is fully aware that Eamon can never forgive her for the accusations she'd thrown at him concerning a certain bastard stable boy, gone for years, but the dark shadow his existence had cast on their relationship will not fade. Given Eamon's reaction to the very reasonable suggestion that the there might be a far more suitable place for such a child than their _home_, she is still not _entirely_ sure the accusations were false.

She knows she ought to feel guilty, but all she can summon is the old familiar hurt. He'd flaunted that tow-headed servant's brat in her face knowing how badly she _needed_ a child of her own body. And even now, she has Connor, but Eamon remains cold and distant. When he looks at his son, she sees none of the eagerness and warmth that had slipped into his eyes when he spoke of that other child. He used to find excuses to roam in the stables and kennels, to go riding, to even _personally_ teach the boy a bit of fighting, some of Ferelden's history, even how to read and write. _He'd_ been the one to show the boy the proper way to care for the horses and dogs, telling him that these were the things that pages and squires did for their Lords on the battlefields. As though some servant's bastard could ever become a knight. It was _cruel_, putting such ideas into the boy's head. Truly, it's better for all of them that he was sent to the Chantry at the proper age.

Yet even with the bastard gone, Eamon pawns Connor off on tutors and nurses, and insists that she is coddling the boy. She ignores his stupid accusations, of course. He hardly treats Connor as his son, he cannot claim to be worried about what the boy _needs_. She is his _mother_ and he needs her.

He needs her, and she holds him and the soft puffs of his breath warm her skin. "What kind of dream?" she asks softly.

Connor squirms in her arms and stares up at her with brown eyes that never fail to startle her with their intensity, as though they can see straight into a person's deepest soul. "There was a lady," he tells her. "She said you weren't my real mama. She said _she_ was. But it's not true, is it?" he shrieks suddenly, twisting and lashing out with sharp kicks and flailing arms. "She's _lying_, I know it!"

She clings to her son, unafraid even in the violent throes of his tantrum. She knows he will not hurt her. "Of course she's lying," she soothes, tracing her finger along his pale skin with touches light as the breath of a ghost, until he relaxes. His chest rises and falls in tandem to her heartbeat, and his eyes slowly drift closed again. He sleeps against her body, and she will not let him go.

"Of course she's lying," Isolde repeats, the words barely drifting past her lips. Even Connor's warmth is not enough to erase the chill that has overtaken her. "You're _mine_. My child, my son. And no one will ever take you away from me. I promise."

In her arms, Connor shifts again, his head bobbing up and down in a slow nod.


	3. Lonely

Title: Answered Prayers  
><span>Author:<span> karebear  
><span>Rating:<span> T  
><span>Characters:<span> Isolde, Connor, some Eamon and Teagan, Jowan later on  
><span>Standard Disclaimer (Dragon Age):<span> I don't own these characters or the world they inhabit. Bioware built the sandbox. I just play in it.  
><span>Summary:<span> "I just want what normal people have." If you try, denial can be powerful enough to hold a family together long after it should have fallen apart. Isolde, Jowan, and Connor try. DAWC challenge response.  
><span>Chapter Notes:<span> This fic will still focus rather a lot on Isolde, but the more I think about it, the more I realized I want to explore the impact of Connor's mageness from a lot of different POVs including Connor himself. So there'll be other characters taking the lead from time to time. Like Teagan in this chapter.

* * *

><p>"Good morning," Teagan greets them with a warm smile.<p>

"Good morning, Teagan," Lady Isolde replies, all proper politeness, and a smile nearly as large as his, though considerably less warm.

Connor though, only stares at him with wide eyes, arms crossed over his chest, and a suspicious frown on his face. Behind him, on the small writing table, sheets of careful writing and large tomes of dry history lat neatly stacked, awaiting his concentration. Teagan nearly snickers. Connor is the only small boy he's ever known who does not have to be threatened into attending to his lessons, and in fact threatens to throw a fit when others take him from them.

As he is about to attempt just now.

He briefly wonders whether this is, in fact, the best idea, then shakes away the doubt. There's nothing at all intimidating about his nephew. He's just a _boy_. Unsettlingly quiet most days and frightfully loud most nights, when he is troubled by dreams, but he is still a child, and Teagan has been told that he has a surprising way with children, for a man who has not yet been blessed with a family of his own.

He redoubles his effort to appear at-ease, and perhaps even slightly excited.

"I heard a rumor," he teases, crouching down to meet Connor's eye. "That a certain boy will soon be turning eight years old."

That certain boy shrugs slightly, though a tiny smile settles onto his face.

"I thought I could take you down to the kennels. There are new puppies ready to imprint. Perhaps one will like you."

"I don't like _them_," Connor says stubbornly. "Those dogs smell funny and they're mean and they always growl at me."

Teagan throws a curious glance at Isolde, but she only shrugs. She'd agreed this was a good idea. Connor has no friends his own age, and the bond between a human and an imprinted mabari might at least ease the weight of the loneliness he's obviously struggling with. It's a cause of constant tension, but Eamon isn't wrong that a growing boy should not spend all of his time with his mother.

"I'll go with you," Isolde tells him. "The three of us will all go together, and then we'll have lunch. It will be fun."

Connor watches her dubiously, having learned already that when adults try this hard to convince him that something will be fun it's usually a sure sign that it won't be. But he finally nods.

"Good!" Teagan announces, relieved and pleased and actually allowing himself to look forward to the small adventure.

They spill out of the thick stone halls of the castle into the chilly autumn wind. The leaves on the nearby trees have taken on a range of colors as spectacular as any summer garden. The ground beneath them is littered with piles of them, dry and crumbling. More fall every hour. He remembers running through similar piles of leaves with Eamon when they were both young, laughing and chasing. The trees were castles to them, needing strong brave knights to guard them and fight off dragons and monsters with swords made from carefully chosen sticks.

Connor does not run for the piles of leaves, aiming to jump into them. He does not seem to see them at all.

As they near the kennels, the dogs grow louder, heralding their approach. One of them runs along Teagan's side, urging him forward.

"Ah, the proud father, are you?" Teagan asks the hound, running his hand along the mabari's back. The dog barks cheerfully. Connor watches the dog warily, and the mabari shies away from the boy.

The kennel is warm, padded with mounds of hay and smelling of animals, not something Isolde appreciates, but to Teagan the scents are familiar and comforting. In a far, hidden corner, small wriggling balls of fur and paws yap and wrestle with one another. Teagan approaches the new puppies, and greets their mother, letting her sniff his fingers before she gives a sharp bark of consent, allowing her to reach in to pick up one of the smaller dogs.

"Come here, Connor," Teagan says gently. "Come and see them."

The boy looks to his mother, then takes a few hesitant steps forward at Isolde's reassuring smile. But as he approaches the kennel stall, both adult hounds growl threateningly, and the puppy in Teagan's hands twists and wriggles until he is finally forced to drop him back in with his siblings. The little puppies stop their play and hide behind their mother, only the bravest looking Connor directly in the eye and barking ceaselessly. Nothing Teagan says or does will calm the dogs.

"I _told_ you they don't like me!" Connor screams, stamping his foot. "I told you but you don't listen! Nobody _ever_ listens to me! I hate you!"

He runs out of the kennels, disappearing far more quickly than Teagan would have thought possible given how rarely Connor actually _runs_. He gives Isolde an apologetic shrug, but she only turns and follows after her son, leaving Teagan alone with the dogs.


	4. Heir

Title: Answered Prayers  
><span>Author:<span> karebear  
><span>Rating:<span> T  
><span>Characters:<span> Isolde, Connor, some Eamon and Teagan, Jowan later on  
><span>Standard Disclaimer (Dragon Age):<span> I don't own these characters or the world they inhabit. Bioware built the sandbox. I just play in it.  
><span>Summary:<span> "I just want what normal people have." If you try, denial can be powerful enough to hold a family together long after it should have fallen apart. DAWC challenge response.  
><span>Chapter Notes:<span> back to Isolde next chapter, I do promise.

* * *

><p>The boy flinches away from the incoming blow, not even attempting to lift the lightweight shield he holds. Eamon half-expects him to drop the thing and run away entirely.<p>

"I'm not going to hurt you, son. It's just a practice blade."

"_So?_" Connor replies, staring at the wooden sword as though it might leap from his father's hands to attack him personally. "Anyway, I'm not supposed to fight."

The heir to Redcliffe is nearing his tenth year. Boys his age are _supposed_ to be eager to train with sword and shield. They're _supposed_ to look forward to tournaments and listen at doorways for talk of wars they're too young to fight in.

His son is half grown. In not too many years he'll be expected to defend his land, to fight at his King's command. And he's afraid of a _practice_ sword.

"Not supposed to fight," Eamon repeats carefully. "Who told you that?"

He has a sneaking suspicion he knows, and he does _not_ look forward to holding this conversation with his wife _again_.

But Connor lets the shield drop gently to the ground and shrugs.

"Nobody told me," he insists. "I just _know_."

Eamon sets his own training paraphernalia down and begins stripping off the heaviest of his armor, slightly disturbed by how _old_ he feels. He really ought to get back into the habit of sparring with some of the guards. Maybe he _could_ be a bit more of an inspiration. It's little wonder Connor feels no desire to play-fight with a fat old man.

"Shall we walk down to the lake?" he asks his son.

"I guess that's okay," Connor replies, but Eamon notices the tiniest flash of a smile cross the boy's face. It's about the most eager he ever appears about anything. Well, he might succeed in politics, at least.

They avoid the more populated sections of shoreline around the village, where laborers will be unloading what few cargo carriers bother to come here and fishermen crowd the docks. Instead, Eamon takes Connor to the rocky beach not far from where the forests begin, the edge of the land that he claims and one of the many patches of Ferelden that remains wild and untamed.

The smile _remains_ on Connor's face as he stares up at the evergreen trees, many times his height. "I like it here," he admits, and Eamon relaxes.

"Me too," he tells his son, though in truth he makes no special effort to come out here, spending far more time working to manage his lands than actually walking them.

"Connor, you know why we live in a castle, don't you? Why it's important for you to learn how to use a sword properly, and wear armor, even if you don't like it?"

"Because _you_ think I'll have to be a knight someday, like you."

"I'm not a knight," Eamon corrects him automatically, though that's not actually the _point_. "But you're right. Being born into this family gives you a great deal of privilege, Connor. You have money and education, you'll never have to worry about going without anything. But all that comes with a great deal of _duty_. Do you understand that?"

"I guess so."

"All of the people that live here in the village look to our family to protect them. To make decisions that will help them prosper. To defend this land against attacks, when they come. When you grow up, that will all be your job. Are you listening to me?"

Connor has run to the edge of the water. His boots have been abandoned among the rocks, and he splashes through the shallows, the icy water lapping over his pale skin.

"I'm listening," Connor tells him solemnly. Eamon has stopped just at the edge of the tide. It would not be proper for _him_ to get wet, after all. "You're wrong though. I won't protect anybody here."

Eamon sighs. From his conversations with his peers in Denerim, he really shouldn't be surprised by this. Plenty of noble children Connor's age rebel, seeking to carve a path for themselves in direct opposition to all the choices they feel were made for them. Teyrn Cousland's daughter is an absolute nightmare, if even half of the man's tales are true.

Well... he and Teagan caused their own difficulties, to be sure. He married an _Orlesian_, for one thing, and Teagan _still_ gets away with far more than he should.

He just wishes his son might be a little happier about the life he'll inherit. Eamon won't live forever after all.

"There's great honor in being a noble lord, Connor," he tells the boy, who has climbed onto one of the larger rocks, slippery with water and slime. "It's just like in all the stories you read. Don't you _want_ to protect people?"

Connor shrugs, looking his father in the eye with that deeply unsettling stare. What kind of child never _blinks_?

"I think I want to," he says quietly. "I just won't."


	5. I Know Now

Title: Answered Prayers  
><span>Author:<span> karebear  
><span>Rating:<span> T  
><span>Characters:<span> Isolde, Connor, some Eamon and Teagan, Jowan later on  
><span>Standard Disclaimer (Dragon Age):<span> I don't own these characters or the world they inhabit. Bioware built the sandbox. I just play in it.  
><span>Summary:<span> "I just want what normal people have." If you try, denial can be powerful enough to hold a family together long after it should have fallen apart. Isolde, Jowan, and Connor try. DAWC challenge response.  
><span>Notes:<span> It took a few days before Isolde wanted to cooperate. _Man!_ We're over halfway through, here. Next chapter... Jowan finally makes his appearance!

* * *

><p>Isolde wanders the stone halls of Redcliffe castle, feeling cold even in the heat of summer. Servants avoid her, knowing now that in moods like this she'd prefer to be alone, though what she <em>really<em> wants is _not_ to be alone at all, actually.

Over days and seasons and years, she's grown more and more isolated, never seeming to make it through even a single conversation with her husband without it devolving into a fight, Eamon storming off angrily and leaving her to retreat into silence. And pace around the castle.

She knows far more of its secret passages and corners than someone of her status ought to. In the moments when she feels particularly lost or darkly ironic, she ends up in the dungeons. Like a small child mesmerized by ghost stories, she can spend hours hidden among the shadows and spiderwebs and the old littered detritus of ancient people who used to be like her.

People _swear_ there are skeletons buried in these walls. She knows better, but it's easy to imagine them, when the wind whistles through cracks in the stone high above her head in keening wails.

Connor will not follow her down here, for all that he loves the violent tales of evil men and the valiant heroes who always seem to find themselves locked in places like this at least once, to be tortured solely to fight their way out at the moment when all seems hopeless, thus proving their true heroism.

She supposes she can't blame takes one last look around the haunting empty passageways and shivers. A change of scenery suddenly feels like a _really_ good idea. She could use some sunlight.

And she ought to find Connor.

The boy does not cling to her as he used to, having gotten it into his mind, after spending a great deal of time with his father, that he is too _old_ to cry to his mother.

He still has the dark dreams at night, but he will _not_ call out for her, and he pushes her away when she tries to comfort him.

Instead, he retreats the way she does. Into books, and the trails in the woods.

He will spend a whole day wandering those paths alone, turning up only as the sun sets.

She fears for him, though Eamon tells her not to, insisting that the villagers tromp through those woods too much for any real danger to lurk. The animals in there have learned to be wary of humans, who are liable to pepper them with arrows the moment they are seen.

Privately, Isolde wonders if it should be the villagers that worry her, but she tells herself that's ridiculous. Even the most desperate among them would never dare to lay a hand on their Lord's only son. After the first few days of Connor's disappearances, she stops agonizing over his absence, and only looks forward to the bright smile she sees on his face upon his return.

And so what if his eyes are still shadowed and uneasy? It's certainly only that he's tired, after long hours of walking and only restless sleep.

She stumbles out of the dark and is surprised to note how late its gotten - the sun is already well past its peak in the sky. _Late afternoon? Really?_

Connor will have finished his daily lessons by this point, and her heart sinks at the thought that she may not be able to see her son until after dark, if he has gone off again. It truly is the weakness of motherhood, that she _needs_ him so desperately, but he is about the only thing that can make her smile these days.

She doesn't bother to hide her excitement when she catches her son's tutor still organizing his piles of books in the small room they use for lessons, and the man tells her that Connor has not gone exploring at all, but simply retreated to the castle's interior gardens.

So she heads for the courtyard, painted with colorful flowers carefully cultivated, but the only beauty she sees is her son, sitting cross-legged among the rose bushes, the sunlight soft and warm on his face.

Her eyes widen as she _really_ sees.

Around her son, roots and vines tangle in constricting patterns and webs that _can't_ be natural.

He holds a rose in his hand, heedless of its thorns, and as she watches it _grows_ around him, twisting around his fingers.

"Connor, what are you doing?"

He jumps at the harsh cut of her voice. She _doesn't_ yell at him, ever.

She pushes down the guilt that surges up as she notices that the blood beading up from where the flower's sharp thorn has dug into his flesh.

He looks up at her with a confused frown, and sticks the bleeding finger in his mouth. It immediately makes him look about five years younger.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asks her, with trembling voice.

But he _does not_ cry. He's _not_ a little kid anymore.

She gathers him in his arms, and though he puts up a token protest, his squirming is half-hearted, and he relaxes and returns her hug after only a couple of heartbeats.

Still waiting for an answer.

She squeezes her eyes shut and shuts out the whispered nagging of her deepest fears, the knowledge she's struggled to push away, but she _can't_ anymore.

Not after this.

Her son is _special_, he has been since the start, different from the other children, the product of whispered desperation in the still of night.

Somewhere deep inside, a part of her has always known.

But mages are cursed, unwanted by the Maker and common men.

Her son is not unwanted.

He cannot be one of _them_.

"No, my heart," she whispers, holding him close against her chest. "You haven't done anything wrong."


	6. Keep It Secret

Title: Answered Prayers  
><span>Author:<span> karebear  
><span>Rating:<span> T  
><span>Characters:<span> Isolde, Connor, some Eamon and Teagan, Jowan later on  
><span>Standard Disclaimer (Dragon Age):<span> I don't own these characters or the world they inhabit. Bioware built the sandbox. I just play in it.  
><span>Summary:<span> "I just want what normal people have." If you try, denial can be powerful enough to hold a family together long after it should have fallen apart. Isolde, Jowan, and Connor try. DAWC challenge response.

* * *

><p>They are alone in her sitting room.<p>

A pot of tea rests untouched on the small table. Isolde watches the steam curl in soft wisps, fading into the air.

Across from her, the young man sits stiffly, looking distinctly out of place in the poofy armchair. She recognizes the look on his face, a boy who thinks he's about to be punished for some misbehavior. She would not be surprised at all to see him squirm, but it appears the lad does have a _bit_ more control than that.

She wonders what he feels so guilty about.

He does not look anything at all like her idea of a mage.

Not that she'd given much thought to what a mage might look like, but this... _Jowan_, is a scrawny thing, looking about as far from powerful or dangerous as it's possible to be.

Except for certain moments, when she catches a hard glint in his eye, and it makes her wonder...

She shakes her head. It's why she knows he's _real_, anyway, that look that he shares with her son, that unnatural spark. That and the simple tricks he'd produced on her command - dancing motes of light and beads of fire.

For now, he's just a man like any other.

His hair could do with a proper wash, and probably ought to be cut as well. His clothes are stained and travel-worn, anonymous rags of the type that could be found on any poor laborer, or beggar.

But then he'd told her he'd fled the Circle, likely with nothing but the robes on his back, which he would of course toss away immediately if he had any sense at all.

Her contacts within Loghain's army had found him for her, a _trick_ to pull off without Eamon becoming aware, but though she hasn't been home since she was a child, she is still Orlesian. There are some things about secrecy, that old dangerous game, that come to her near as naturally as breathing.

"You are an apostate," she says simply. It is merely an observation, yet the boy flinches as though she'd slapped him.

"Y-yes," he stammers.

Isolde sighs.

"From what I've heard, if I were to report your presence here to the local Chantry, it would likely result in your death."

Jowan pales, and grinds his teeth, but he nods.

Isolde watches him, and wonders.

She has not made her move yet, the die is not irrevocably cast.

_Is it?_

No matter what she does, _her son_ is an apostate as well. Connor's guilt will be assumed as surely as Jowan's soon. She's heard they are more lenient with the young ones, but keeping the boy hidden from the Circle _is a crime_. Keeping a wanted fugitive is infinitely worse.

She could be stripped of her title, arrested, even _killed_. She could lose everything.

_It's unlikely_, she reminds herself.

The Chantry in Ferelden does not have such a strong foothold since the war with Orlais. They need to stay on the good side of the political game. She knows her husband is not particularly well-liked, but the Chantry cannot afford to earn the ire of the other nobles. She is safe enough.

And _her_ safety is not the important thing anyway.

She _will not_ give up her son. She _cannot_.

They'd tell her what they tell all the other mothers, those men who hide still behind armor, those smarmy women in cleric's robes.

They will insist that her son is a danger.

They will take him away, and watch her with that same false sympathy she remembers from her years of desperate prayers that went unheeded.

They will frown with lips pursed in disapproval as she grieves the loss of her only child, and tell her simply that the Maker sends trials to test the faithful.

She _will not_ lose her son. She will not lose him to _them_, especially.

She clenches her hand into a tight fist and keeps her face a cool, composed mask, slipping in to the familiar old game, the easy lies.

She remembers when faith is what sustained her, but she's lost even that. She's lost _everything_, except for Connor.

And she will do _anything_ to keep him.

"You have no reason to fear me, Jowan," she tells the nervous criminal who is now her... employee? Ally? "I simply require your assistance."

She shakes her head. No, she's doing this wrong.

This man is not a noble, clawing for power. He is a _mage_, a frightened child ripped from home because his mother did not possess the connections that she does. She could not have dreamed of fighting even Ferelden's weakened Chantry, and because of that, her son grew into a desperate man, haunted and alone. He fled from the Circle, though it means his death if he is caught. She is the only thing shielding him from that fate now, and they both know it.

She wonders how dark that Tower in the middle of her lake must be, that he finds the risk of death worth fleeing it. She shivers at the thought of her little boy trapped there, without her.

"I asked you here because there is a child who needs protection," she says, and when she does so, Jowan meets her eyes for the first time, and she notes the barest hint of disbelieving wonder lighting up his features. "Will you help my son?"

Jowan licks his lips, and swallows hard. His eyes dart around the small room as though seeking a trap.

_Now_ the die is irrevocably cast.

But it seems her mother's intuition holds true yet again. She's read this grown-up boy exactly right, understands his fears and his desires.

Jowan nods, and Isolde smiles. She, at least, is now able to relax.


	7. Stay Alive

Title: Answered Prayers  
><span>Author<span>: karebear  
><span>Rating<span>: T  
><span>Characters<span>: Isolde, Connor, some Eamon and Teagan, Jowan  
><span>Standard Disclaimer (Dragon Age)<span>: I don't own these characters or the world they inhabit. Bioware built the sandbox. I just play in it.  
><span>Summary<span>: "I just want what normal people have." If you try, denial can be powerful enough to hold a family together long after it should have fallen apart. DAWC challenge response.  
><span>Chapter Notes<span>: Apologies in advance for all the Jowan angst. It wasn't supposed to be quite _this_ heavy, but I just roll with it, anymore (I'm happy in real life, _I swear!_) One more chapter after this, it will be in Connor's voice. I'm amazed at how quickly this story just came together in my brain.

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><p>Jowan hesitates only briefly before stepping into the small study, lined with bookshelves and warmed by a small fire crackling in the hearth.<p>

The boy is there, curled up in one of the chairs near the small table where a stack of books rests. Cold winter sun streams through the high windows, catching the red highlights of his hair.

Somehow, when the man called Loghain had offered him this one chance to stay alive, Jowan had completely forgotten to think about the actual _child_ involved.

He reminds himself that Loghain promised no one would get hurt. The Arl will simply be ill for a little while.

The little vial rests close against his body, stuffed into a hidden pocket. It will be easy to slip it into the kitchens. He and Anders snuck into far more dangerous places in the Circle all the time.

And now Anders is in a dungeon cell, solitary for a _year_.

And he's here, a _maleficar_ about to commit treason. His stomach flips.

"Who're you?"

Jowan takes a shallow breath and forces himself to focus on the boy.

Ten years old, already years older than almost every new Circle apprentice he'd ever heard of. Lady Isolde is right about her son needing protection. If the templars find him now, his life in the Tower will be... even harder than most.

The older ones remember too much about the real world outside the walls. They fight harder and are watched more closely. They find it more difficult to make friends among classmates who have known each other for years. They struggle to catch up with even the most basic of lessons.

He tries, but he can't come up with any scenario in which the Circle _won't_ destroy this child.

He's heard the gossip in the village and among the servants in the castle: they avoid the boy, they're suspicious of him already. It's only a matter of time, really. If he leaves this child to fend for himself, the templars will have him within a year. Within a _month_, more like.

Connor has all of the same problems every mage child has, as they struggle to understand something that is not meant to be understood.

But he also has one thing Jowan never had, a mother who _wants_ him.

Once, Jowan did all the things that Connor is doing now. He woke up thrashing around in the night, he followed the noiseless calls into the wild places where the primal forces of nature are strongest, even though you can't explain why. He tried to fight the voices his head, because he was more afraid of his father than he was of the demons in his dreams. But his power bled through anyway, because it _always_ does.

When the templars came, they were _almost_ nice.

One of them found him hiding under his bed, crying silent tears. The welts all over his body were still raw, brand new. He'd only run there because his father had heard the riders coming up the road. He'd known it was a bad idea, that when the strange men left it would only mean a worse beating, for trying to get away.

Except the man pulled him out gently, and didn't hit him, just held him until he stopped crying, told him not to be scared.

He thought the Circle would be better but it _wasn't_.

True, the beatings stopped, for him, for a while. But he watched the templars hurt his best friend _all the time_. Anders was _brave_, he didn't care about getting caught, and Jowan never knew if he was supposed to be mad at him for being _stupid_, or mad at himself for being useless and weak and scared.

The fear _never_ went away.

The only thing he's always known for sure is that nobody cares what happens to him.

Connor has a family.

Jowan can help him keep it.

If he can do one thing right, it's _this_. He can make sure that this boy does not wind up like him.

"Your mother hired me to teach you, Connor."

The boys eyes, already suspicious, narrow further. "_Why?_ I already had a tutor."

Jowan frowns, not quite sure how he's supposed to answer that.

_Because there's things you need to know that he can't teach you. Because you're not normal. And probably because if he'd known what you are, he'd run away just like everybody else._

From what he's gathered, although Lady Isolde is quite aware her son has magic, if anyone else in the castle has figured it out, they're smart enough not to say so. They _must not_ know, because the templars have not come.

He has little doubt she has never used the words "mage" or "magic" even when talking to Connor.

The boy is still young, he likely has no idea what this power he's wielding is. He may not even be aware that he wields it.

He remembers when all he knew was that _things happen_ when you're around, that you can't explain no matter how many angry threats are shouted at you.

Connor may not know it yet, but he _is_ a mage, with _so much more_ raw power than Jowan has, and that knowledge is both unsettling and thrilling. He's used to everyone around him being better than he is. Spells came easily to them while he struggled, but they were still Circle-trained, afraid to do it wrong, afraid to channel too much with the templars always watching.

Jowan can feel the mana swirling all around and through the boy, and he nearly shivers with the familiar pleasure of it. Connor is _alive_ with magic, lit up like a beacon, and Jowan wonders how the boy _hasn't_ been discovered and hauled off yet.

_Because only you can see it_, he reminds himself.

Mages call to one another, the Fade reaching out for its own.

Jowan hasn't been near another mage since... _Since the Circle_.

_It's okay to think about it_, he reminds himself.

But he can't without thinking of Lily, of Melly, of all the promises he broke. They're _dead_ now, almost certainly, _because of him_. The raw power of the Fade that lives in Connor _pulls_ at his emotions, seeking their strength, digging at all the guilt and fear. He tries to outrun it, but he carries it inside him, and it feels like he's choking in it.

But no one has to know.

He hasn't mastered much despite his decades in the Circle, but not exposing his emotional vulnerabilities is one thing he's quite the expert at.

He tries to remember what it was like before he learned to block out the strongest surges of power, when he just _did_ things, without meaning to, without _trying_, when his instinctive reaction to fear and anger was lashing out instead of shutting down. Before he learned to _control himself_.

It was so long ago that he _can't_ remember.

Maybe being Tranquil wouldn't have been so bad after all. He's halfway there already.

Because he watches Connor smile, and it's like a foreign language. The boy still feels tiny surges of pleasure, at the novelty of what he can do. And Jowan can't even imagine what that must be like, because all he feels anymore, all he's felt for _years_, is disappointment that transforms into desperation.

He always manages to fuck up even the simplest things.

_Don't be a blood mage_ is a pretty easy rule, when you think about it. Hundreds of mages manage to survive in the Circle just fine without breaking that one, but _he_ can't even handle that.

Connor stares at him with wide eyes, confused but _trusting_, and he just hopes he doesn't mess this up too.

This kid deserves so much better than that.


	8. Unlimited

Title: Answered Prayers  
><span>Author:<span> karebear  
><span>Rating:<span> T  
><span>Characters:<span> Isolde, Connor, Jowan, some Eamon and Teagan  
><span>Standard Disclaimer (Dragon Age):<span> I don't own these characters or the world they inhabit. Bioware built the sandbox. I just play in it.  
><span>Summary:<span> "I just want what normal people have." If you try, denial can be powerful enough to hold a family together long after it should have fallen apart. DAWC challenge response.  
><span>Chapter Notes:<span> And here we are: gutterxromance, I have no idea if that's anything close to what you wanted. I know it turned into more of a Connor fic than an Isolde one. Sometimes you can't predict these things...

This chapter's for Suilven, who wanted Jowan and Connor to have a moment to connect before the inevitable. I tried.

And I'm already toying with the idea of a sequel with Isolde and Jowan in the dungeons after it all falls apart, but that's a dark and scary place even for me, and I'm not honestly sure I'll be able to pull it off. We shall see.

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><p>"Connor, are you... all right?"<p>

He thinks this is a stupid question, but he smiles a little despite himself.

Nobody else has even _asked_.

Everyone's worried about his father, nobody even tells him anything. He's been to visit, of course.

He thinks it's weird that it's "visiting" now, just because he's sick. It was never "visiting" before, when he spent time with his father, sharing books or asking questions or just watching him, trying to learn what grown men did, feeling like he'd never be able to do those things right. It wasn't visiting when his father ruffled his hair, and laughed. It wasn't visiting when Connor held his hand. It was just... normal.

He glances up at his new tutor, the _mage_, sitting across the table.

In the beginning, Jowan was all nervous and jumpy, but now he isn't like that anymore. Well... not as much.

Connor kicks the leg of the table, over and over again. He likes the sound it makes. He likes how it feels, to have something solid push back against him, steady and predictable.

Kick, kick, kick. Kick.

His old tutor would have scowled and snapped at him and threatened to hit him with his cane if he didn't stop, even though Connor knows he'd never actually do it, because everybody's scared of him, even the grown-ups. They never say so and they try to pretend like they aren't, but it's _obvious_. And even if they weren't scared of him, they're scared of his mother.

Jowan doesn't even seem to notice, but Connor stops kicking the table anyway.

He'd actually _liked_ his old tutor, mostly, even though he was old and pretty boring.

He's not sure about Jowan yet. He doesn't act like any grown-up Connor's ever seen. For one thing, he's not "Ser" or "Lord" or anything, just Jowan.

He's not bossy. He pretty much lets Connor do whatever he wants, now that everybody else is busy trying to make the Arl get better and no one can spare the time to notice if the heir of Redcliffe is studying properly.

Anyway, they both know Jowan's not here to teach him languages and maths. He's here to show him about _magic_, only he doesn't seem to know how to do that either.

"Can you teach me how to do that fire thing?" Connor asks abruptly.

His mother would have noticed that he hadn't answered the question about how he was feeling, and wouldn't have let go on it, but Jowan doesn't say anything about that. Maybe he knows that boys aren't supposed to get all concerned about _feelings_.

In response, Jowan lights up a few sparks that coalesce into a ball of licking flame that twine around his fingers, matching the larger fire contained in the hearth. It feels warm, but when Connor reaches out to touch the flames, it doesn't feel dangerous.

Until Jowan snatches his hand away, and the vibrations Connor felt wrapping around them both stop suddenly, and the whole _room_ feels a whole lot colder.

"Don't touch it!" Jowan snaps, shaky. "It's _fire_, Connor! You'll get burned."

"Oh." He suddenly feels very stupid. He just wanted to see what it felt like, really.

Jowan sighs, and actually _apologizes_ for snapping at him. Connor stares at him incredulously. He's supposed to be the one in charge, isn't he?

"Close your eyes," Jowan says quietly. "Make a picture in your mind, of what you want. You have to _see_ it, before you can make it. You have to concentrate."

Connor frowns, because Jowan sounds _different_. He can't figure out how, exactly, until he realizes that it's the same kind of voice his tutor used to have when he recited long passages and things. It's a memory voice. Jowan's trying to sound important, repeating things other people must have told him a thousand times.

Connor feels that... _thing_ around Jowan, familiar but new, all wind and music and something like the taste of making pie. It's called _mana_, he knows now. It's the thing that everybody's scared of.

When Connor plays with it, it's _easy_, but Jowan makes it hard. He tries to push when he's supposed to pull, he doesn't do it right.

That's why he gets all sweaty and chews on his lower lip when he tries to show Connor things.

"You're concentrating wrong," Connor tells him.

He closes his eyes like Jowan told him, and he feels fire in his hands. Warm and safe, like the fireplace, like a campfire his father had helped him build once. It doesn't hurt and it isn't dangerous. He opens his eyes and lets the sparks fly around and smiles.

"No offense, but you're not a very good teacher."

Anybody else would act all shocked. His mother would tell him not to be rude. But Jowan actually laughs. "No," he admits. "I'm really not."

"Can you really make anything you want?" Connor asks.

"_I_ can't," Jowan admits. "But you? Maybe. Mages - _we_ - are connected to the Fade. We call things into being. 'Thought and will become reality.' Or that's what they say, anyway."

"Who says?"

Jowan blinks, as though he's never thought about that. "The Chantry," he says slowly. "The Circle. The templars and the old mages. The good teachers. Anyway, it sounds right, doesn't it? It _feels_ right?"

Is he telling, or asking?

"I can make things happen," Connor agrees. "But only sometimes. And I'm not supposed to. Mother always said I couldn't. I have to keep it secret or they'll take me away. That's why _you're_ here, isn't it?"

"Yeah. That's why I'm here."

"Are they _really_ good teachers, in the Circle? Better than you?"

"Better than me, yes."

"But not good?"

Jowan doesn't reply, and as Connor watches the other mage looks... sad? Connor doesn't know what he's supposed to do about that. He kicks the table leg again. "Mother always makes it sound so scary. But maybe it's where I'm _supposed_ to go."

Connor tilts his head back, surprised to see Jowan looking scared. _That's_ what he looked like, before. Scared, not sad.

The other mage has never been afraid of him before. He's the only one who isn't, and Connor feels something twisting around in his stomach at the thought that he might lose that.

With Jowan, he feels normal. At least a little bit.

"Your mother's right, Connor. They don't let you make things in the Circle. I think that's what you mean, about me concentrating wrong. I can't remember how to do it right anymore." He sighs, drumming his fingers on top of the stack of books neither of them have looked at since they got here. "Other people belong there, maybe. I think I do. I'd go back if I could. But not you. Because you can make what you want. And you _should_."

Connor plays with sparks of fire, letting them wind around his fingers. He changes them to different colors.

But no matter how bright he makes them, the room still feels cold.

He thinks about the things he _really_ wants.

He wants friends.

He wants a mother who cooks dinner like the kind in stories, instead of yelling at all the servants because she thinks they're trying to hurt him when they _aren't_.

He wants his father to get better.

He wants to be able to fight with a sword with him again, and he'll keep practicing even though he hates it because he wants somebody to be _proud_ of him, instead of confused and nervous and _afraid_.

"What if I just want what normal people have?" he asks, too softly for Jowan to hear.


End file.
